


It's Time to Begin, Isn't It?

by orphan_account



Series: Fullmetal Fortnight 2014 [13]
Category: Fullmetal Alchemist, Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: Fluff, Gen, Post-Canon, Prompt Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-16
Updated: 2014-03-16
Packaged: 2018-01-15 21:48:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,499
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1320391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Al spends the first month of his new existence marvelling at every sight, every sound, every scent. The soft dryness of Den’s fur. The spicy sweetness of Granny’s apple pie. The yielding dampness of morning grass. The euphonic smoothness of Winry’s singing. The gorgeous loudness of Ed’s laughter.</p><p>His cheeks ache from the constant smile and, that, amazes him. Sensation, pleasure and pain alike, warmth and cold. Standing in the rain with his hair plastered wetly to his forehead. Leaning back in the wooden chair while Ed snips the excess gold from his locks. Feeling his tendons and sinews shift under his skin as he hands the salesgirl sufficient cenz to cover his purchase and a generous tip.</p><p>When he walks outside, the weight of the shopping bag aching his arms, he inhales the scents of acrid vehicle exhaust across the road and the fresh rolls from the bakery down the street and the perfume from the two starry-eyed boys with linked arms who pass him by while he props a hand against the nearest cement wall to handle the sudden dizziness of—of the <em>universe</em>—of the <em>truth</em>—of the <em>fact</em> that he’s <em>alive</em>—</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's Time to Begin, Isn't It?

**Author's Note:**

> Written for FMA Week 2014. Prompt 8 "Men's Day". Written for the prompt: "Even though Alphonse isn’t a giant suit of armor anymore he can still kick Ed’s ass at hand-to-hand combat". Also for the prompt: "Alphonse + fifth song on your shuffle". The fifth song was Imagine Dragon's _It's Time_.
> 
> Finding a dude to write about was actually pretty difficult, all things considered. Not that I dislike the dudes in FMA at all, but that I've generally found myself much more interested in the female characters. However, the Elric brothers are exceedingly important to me and I'll defend their brotherhood at all costs.
> 
> Featuring a guest appearance by the Xing crew! Xing crew or die.
> 
> If you know what the kung fu styles that Al learns reference, then you win the internet, my friend.
> 
> Unedited/unbeta'd/etc. Enjoy!

Al spends the first month of his new existence marvelling at every sight, every sound, every scent. The soft dryness of Den’s fur. The spicy sweetness of Granny’s apple pie. The yielding dampness of morning grass. The euphonic smoothness of Winry’s singing. The gorgeous loudness of Ed’s laughter.

His cheeks ache from the constant smile and, that, amazes him. Sensation, pleasure and pain alike, warmth and cold. Standing in the rain with his hair plastered wetly to his forehead. Leaning back in the wooden chair while Ed snips the excess gold from his locks. Feeling his tendons and sinews shift under his skin as he hands the salesgirl sufficient cenz to cover his purchase and a generous tip.

When he walks outside, the weight of the shopping bag aching his arms, he inhales the scents of acrid vehicle exhaust across the road and the fresh rolls from the bakery down the street and the perfume from the two starry-eyed boys with linked arms who pass him by while he props a hand against the nearest cement wall to handle the sudden dizziness of—of the _universe_ —of the _truth_ —of the _fact_ that he’s _alive_ —

He hides his bag of purchases under the bed.

“Brother, Win,” he says, leaning on his crutch, “can you guys help me plan a regime?”

Sitting on the bed with his shoulders slumped against the headboard, his brother looks up from the book on philosophical alchemy to raise an eyebrow. Winry closes the volume on Xingese automail. “A regime?”

Al nods. Smiles. His bangs, curling to the left in the shape of a bird’s wing of freedom, bob slightly. Winry and Ed exchange glances as though an angel had apparated in a shower of golden light. “I want to regain my strength. May’s invited me to Xing, remember? I barely it made it to Resembool on my own two feet—”

“—and you don’t have to push yourself.” Ed is on his feet out of nowhere with his hand on Al’s shoulder, steadying him despite Al’s perfectly in-tact balance. “If you need to, I’ll go with you to Xing. Recover at your own rate. Don’t push yourself.”

Winry sighs. “Ed. You don’t need to baby him.”

“I’m not _babying_ him!” Ed snaps. His fingers tighten painfully and Al carefully slips his shoulder free of his brother’s grip. Ed clasps empty air. His pupils dart in Al’s direction. When he speaks it’s not a question: “I’m not babying you, am I.”

“Brother, I _am_ recovering at my own pace,” Al answers pleasantly to Winry’s continued exhalations of exasperation. “I want to train safely. You’ve been lifting weights for your arm, I’ve noticed.”

Ed frowns.

“I know the dangers of going too far, too fast,” he continues, “which is _why_ I’m asking for your help. Please? And—here, I’ll promise you something. If I can defeat you in hand to hand combat, _then_ you’ll let me go to Xing.”

“What? You’ve grown tired of your own older brother?”

Before Al can respond, Winry has butt in: “You’ve always wanted to travel to Creta and Aerugo and the rest of those places, Ed. _That’s_ what he means.”

“Oh.” Ed huffs out a breath and his antenna wisps in the air prior to settling back in its place. “Yeah. I’ll help.”

Regime in hand, Al mails the proposed schedule to May and waits while the letter circulates the Si Wong Desert, lolls over the western steppes of Xing, and eventually finds a path to the Chang quarters in the capital of Xijing. A month later the reply arrives along with a white training robe highlighted in an amaranth sash. Without informing his brother he follows the updated regime, which has consolidated three to four days of the original schedule into a single workout.

 _At least_ , writes May, _you know your brother’s looking out for you._

The first day his muscles burn and he beams at the pain. Then the following morning he can scarcely move his limbs. Winry offers to feed him in bed; Ed _demands_ to feed him in bed. Al opts to at least struggle breakfast into his mouth. Does so. Falls back onto the pillow and seriously reconsiders May’s Training From Hell (Without Injuring Yourself—Alkahestry Approved!) regime.

Digging the purchases from under his bed, he lifts weights steadily, one by one, increasing the heaviness at the beginning of each week. He stands by the foot of his bed, hands on the bedposts, and lifts his legs until his thighs strain. Checks how long he can jog, slowly, in place. Walks the length of the path outside with his crutch strapped to his back until he nearly trips and stumbles and falls. Hobbles back up to the house dependent on the crutch, and on Den, for life.

After that Granny starts gardening in the morning. To watch over him, he knows. He’s grateful.

He helps her weed. She uses the sickle born of his armour and he conceals his grin under the brunt of hard work.

One day he realises that he can walk confidently now as he descends the stairs without pausing in the centre. At the base he yelps. Crashes from the other room: Winry drops her automail to run out and ask him—” _What happened?_ ”—while Ed, missing his left leg, skips awkwardly after her. Al bursts out laughing. His sides cramp, his lungs burn, his stomach convulses, and he hasn’t felt this happy in months.

 _Months_.

When he can keep up a reasonable pace at running and has gained enough kilograms to fill out the spaces between his ribs, he invites Ed to jog with him. In his brother’s white sweatshirt he paces himself, matching Ed’s stride and Ed’s breath and exceeding by far Ed’s effort.

His muscle _hurt_ and his sinews _throb_ and his tendons _creak_ and he feels better minute by minute, hour by hour, day by day. Each morning he counts the bruises that blossom over his skin from the number of times he’s fallen down or run too far. Each morning he rekindles the pride in his recovery.

AT length Al slips on the white training uniform sent to him by May and the fabric folds perfectly around on his skin. Fits the length of his limbs and the circumstance of his waist to a degree that excites him over again at the thought of relearning how to spar. Vaguely wondering how May guessed at his dimensions, he props open the book on Xingese martial arts, a book divided into four segments: t’ai chi; northern shaolin; hung ga; and bagua zhang. Starting with the first, he practises the forms, moves slowly through them, learns how to roll his weight and stand his ground and race circles around his opponents, directing their forces against them without ever using an iota of his own.

Winry watches him on occasion, intrigued; she’s taken to drawing—“Schematics are part of any automail engineer’s toolkit!” she declares eagerly as she sketches from textbooks on anatomy and physiology, surreptitiously hiding the more _questionable_ doodles of Ed in dresses or in much more _intriguing_ poses than Al ever wanted to accidentally chance upon—and she traces his form when he kicks or punches or flips so that he can inspect himself afterwards, compare himself to the drawings in the book, translate the Xingese and consult the word for advice.

Something like a year after he regains his body, the Emperor and the Shadow show up on the Rockbell-Elrics’ doorstep, dusty and disguised in Amestrisian clothing so obviously outlandish that Winry is snorting in laughter the instant she answers the door. It’s the noise of her mirth that draws Al to the door. Bows to the two on the step. Makes his request.

Ling, trained in northern shaolin, advises Al so fervently that the latter pumps his fists into the air, completely prepared for whatever might  hit him next. Then Lan Fan—a master of all except for t’ai chi—corrects his form with a snappish curtness that nearly drains his confidence in an instant. He voices his concern; she snorts and offers to leave.

His eyes widen. Sensei.

He’s talking to Sensei again.

 _Now_ he’s going to become strong.

They spar; she kicks his ass ten times in a row and when he stands up for the eleventh pass, she clasps his hand in hers, squeezes his fingers hard enough for him to wince. “I’ll train you.”

His sheepish smile crinkles the corners of his eyes. “Isn’t that what you’ve been doing?”

Folding her arms across her chest, Lan Fan arches an eyebrow. “I was testing you, to see if you were worthy. Very well.” She claps her hands onto his shoulders; her automail fingers grate his collarbone, and he winces. “Let us train.”

They train. For the remainder of the summer they train. Winry and Ling observe, the former scribbling furiously in her sketchbook, the latter eating approximately the entire content of the Rockbell-Elric refrigerator. Ed demands to see  but Al calls it a secret. “C’mon, Brother, an alchemist never reveals his secrets,” he jests over his cup of coffee and Ed’s glass of orange juice. Ed drains the glass, slams it down on the table adequately harshly to splinter the glass. “Ah, sorry. Brother?”

They hug, silently, an embrace that says more than hours of conversation ever could.

By the time the days shorten and the nights lengthen, Lan Fan leaves him with a rigorous regime for the final few months, hands him a yellow dash, and bows low. “I’m proud of you. You’ll do fine, Alphonse.” So he trains onwards, running kilometres, toiling through push-ups and crunches, transmuting heavier and heavier weights. He’s _alive_ and he _hurts_ and he _feels_ and the world is so beautiful he could cry, and does.

At last he receives the letter from May that requests his presence in Xing. _It’s been almost two years!_ she writes. _Are you feeling all right? Can you make the trip, or do you want me to visit in Resembool?_

 _Yes,_ he writes back, _and I’ll be leaving within the week_.

At sunset the brothers face one another in the garden. Winry pulls up chairs for herself, for Granny, and for Paninya, who has returned from servicing amputees in Ishval for the past two years. The Elric brothers strip to the waist. Al bows respectfully and Ed snorts. Digging his heel into the ground he swings the first punch—Al is taller by a handful of centimetres; his brother knows how to fight like a runt—and Al spins around. While Ed fights his own momentum Al whirls to slam him in the back. To his brother’s credit, Ed doesn’t go down as much as he rolls neatly forward, leaps up acrobatically to his feet. Too bad Al stepped forward into position to kick up at Ed’s solar plexus.

They flit and fly through the air. Birds, as Paninya calls them later. Flurries of kicks and punches: Ed’s high jumps and backwards rolls, Al’s simultaneous wrist-grips and circular motions.

The fight drags on. Resolving not to damage his automail, Al trips his brother by the _right_ leg. Ed drops to his knees; the metal creaks. Winry and Paninya sit up. Al crouches by his side. “Brother! Are you okay?”

Lying facedown in the dirt, his brother groans. Lifts himself, wearily, to his knees and elbows. Al supports him, hand curved around Ed’s upper arm. The irony—no, not the _irony_ , but the reserved roles—does not escape him. EIther of them. “Fuckin’ fine. Al.”

“Yes, Brother?”

“Have fun in Xing, ‘kay?” Sitting up, his brother grips him at the shoulders; their gazes lock. One darkened gold, the iris ringed in the amber glow of their father’s lineage. The other luminous bright, the gold tempered in the spring green of the mother’s love. “And don’t forget to write me.”

“Brother, you sound like Winry.” But he’s laughing, and Ed is looking away to hide the flush in his cheeks.

“Maybe Win had a point,” he mumbles. Raises his balled fist.

Al touches his knuckles to Ed’s. “I’ll write you. It’ll take a while, but I’ll write you.”

“Well,” says Paninya, having unfolded herself from the chair and brushed the dust from her pants, “looks like the son’s finally beaten the dad or whatever. The younger brother beaten the older brother, I guess.”

Winry nods; the ends of her hair bob. “Hope you’re not feein’ too offended, Ed!”

Al pulls Ed up to a standing position. Rubbing the back of his neck, sweat trickling down his forehead and slicking his ponytail down, Ed grins. “‘Course not. He’s _Al_. He’s better than anything I could ever be, and y’know, I wouldn’t want that to ever change.”

Al wants to say: _You’re wrong, you’re so wrong; you act like I’m more perfect than you are, who defeated Father, who brought me back, who would shorten your own life before making Winry cry again_ ; _just look at your smile, Brother, your smile could convince the angels to give up their wings._

And in Ed’s shimmering irises he sees the answer: _You’re right. I_ did _convince an angel to give up his wings and come to Earth, and he’s standing right in front of me, right now._

“Hey. Al. Al, guess what?”

“What, Brother?”

Ed hugs him. “I love you, you dumbass. And when you get back from Xing, you’re gonna teach me this whole—martial art thing—okay?”

“. . . yeah.” Al smiles into his brother’s neck, embraces him more closely. “Yeah. I will. Brother?”

“Yeah”

“I love you too.”

His brother’s eyes glisten wetly. Turning his gaze away, he answers, voice low and rough with the desperate effort not to cry. “I’ll see you in a couple months. Dumbass.”

“It’s raining.”

“It—it’s _not_.”

Al smiles. When he wipes his eyes, the back of his hand comes away damp. “It _is_ raining, Brother. I’m—I’m weeping. I’m alive. Thank you.”

The river breaks its banks. The Elric brothers, united in their sin and in the wings of melted wax still scarring their, on the knees, holding on to one another, holding on to their _lifelines_ , and they _hurt_ and they _cry_ and they’re _alive_ and _human_ and _together_.

Al spent the first month of his new existence marvelling at every sight, every sound, every scent. The soft dryness of Den’s fur. The spicy sweetness of Granny’s apple pie. The yielding dampness of morning grass. The euphonic smoothness of Winry’s singing. The gorgeous loudness of Ed’s laughter.

But that’s not quite true.

Al has spent—spends— _will_ spend—his life marvelling at the universe. _His_ universe. Imperfect, cracked, broken.

But _his_.

Sparring his brother, or kissing May, or hugging Winry, or any one of a thousand things, he’s alive. And he’s going to make the most of it, every second of every minute of every day of every year of every lifetime.

A heart, he thinks, made fullmetal.


End file.
